


The First Date

by wizardsandthrones



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Erotica, First Dates, M/M, Muggle London, Nervous Harry, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29597421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wizardsandthrones/pseuds/wizardsandthrones
Summary: Draco asks Harry on a date for Valentine's Day.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 61





	The First Date

**Author's Note:**

> For all the first dates this Valentine's Day, and all first dates past and future, I wish you be as in love as these two, and as awkward and nervous and real, for it wouldn't be a first date otherwise.

Harry stands nervously before the door. His scarf tickles his neck uncomfortably. He feels flushed, hot, despite the winter chill creeping past his coat.

It is Valentine’s Day. He has not been on a proper date in years. Is this a proper date? He has been around Draco many times, though always with other people. Their friends have been waiting for this to happen. Everyone says it was inevitable. Harry never saw it. 

After the war ended, the world seemed to slow down. No one wanted to get anything done anymore. The Ministry put a lot of people in Azkaban, but that was it. The reforms would come later, they said. Five years have passed since then, and the world has not moved. Days come and go like waves lapping the shore. Everyone complains, but no one tries to change it. 

Draco and his mother did not serve time in Azkaban, though his father did. They went to France for two years, then returned when Lucius was released. Harry saw him, Pansy, and Blaise walking the streets of London late at night, where he was at a pub with his friends, the usual crowd of Gryffindors, and a few more, as they were celebrating Ron’s birthday. He called them inside, a little drunk, and they spent the rest of the night catching up, laughing, reminiscing.

Pansy took a liking to Neville. They kissed by the end of the night, Pansy with her catlike smile, Neville speechless, his cheeks red as roses. Harry and Dean discovered that Draco had purchased a Muggle video game, but did not know how to operate it, so they invited him over the very next day to teach him, always desperate for more players.

It was like the world needed to stop turning for a moment, so that they could experience a small window of peace, between war and healing. They all just needed to take a deep breath, to forget the harsh words and bitter spells cast, to pretend that they had always liked each other from the start.

Then Harry liked Draco. Maybe he liked him from the moment Draco walked in the pub that first night he called out to him on the street, those grey eyes wary, the delicate blonde hair tousled in curly waves. It was a curious feeling, a warmth and a sharpness, like an ache in his chest. 

But nothing ever came of it. Harry would never ask him out. His friends encouraged him to make the first move, but Harry refused. Harry might like Draco, but there was no way Draco liked Harry. He was a Gryffindor, Draco was a Slytherin. It was impossible. 

But he was wrong. Draco liked him, and asked him to come over tonight, alone. He knows Draco well, from their growing friendship over the last few years, but now he doubts whether he knows Draco at all. For what does he really know about him?

That he likes video games. He likes chocolate croissants. He likes shopping. He speaks fluent French. He never refuses a cigarette, but never buys them himself. He is sarcastic often, but underneath he is sincere and almost sweet, like a bitter tea with all the honey sitting at the bottom. And he has the Dark Mark, now faded on the underside of his forearm. 

But what is this knowledge matter in the face of this date? Do they mean anything, if Harry were to lean in for a kiss? How do they help him then, at the pivotal moment? Those facts seem to crumble under the weight of such significance. 

He knocks on the door before he changes his mind. Draco opens it immediately. He wears a pressed dress shirt and pants, making Harry feel undressed in his dark jeans and sweater.

“Hello,” Harry says, sounding breathless. He clumsily hands over a bouquet of red roses that Hermione forced him to buy. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh is it Valentine’s Day?” Draco asks, much to the alarm of Harry, before he smiles and takes the bouquet. “Did Hermione tell you to buy these?”

“Yes,” Harry says, blushing. 

Draco opens the door wider. “Of course she did. Come in.”

He doesn’t look nervous, which only makes Harry more nervous. Harry hangs his coat and scarf by the door while Draco puts the flowers in a white vase and fills it with water. He places the vase on the dining table. Harry stands awkwardly in the middle of the apartment, hands by his sides. 

“Don’t just stand there,” Draco says, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Please, take a seat on the couch. I have cheese and wine.”

Harry sits on the couch, his heart hammering. Draco brings over the cheese platter and two glasses of wine. Harry takes a grateful sip of his, hoping it will help him relax. 

Draco looks at him under lidded, curious eyes. “Are you nervous?”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

Harry starts. “You are?”

“You sound surprised,” Draco says, smiling. 

“You don’t look nervous, that’s all.”

“I am nervous. I didn’t think you would agree to this, and now you’re here.” 

Harry takes another long sip of his wine. Draco watches him, then looks away, a flush rising on his neck, which startles Harry even more. Suddenly the room grows hotter, and Harry looks everywhere except at Draco. 

“Why would I not agree?” Harry asks, finally. 

Draco shrugs. “Some things have changed, but others haven’t.”

“Like what?” 

“You know what,” Draco says, his eyes revealing a worry which he hides by lightly shoving Harry’s shoulder. But Harry catches his wrist with his Seeker reflexes before it can slide away. Draco’s pulse thrums under his fingers. 

“This?” Harry uses his other hand to slowly slide his shirt sleeve up to his elbow. Draco’s Dark Mark is nothing more than a faded tattoo on his skin. 

“Yes,” Draco says, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Harry looks at Draco, at his apprehension, and traces the outline of the Dark Mark, ending with his fingertip on the head of the snake. Draco’s eyelids flutter shut, then open anxiously. He pulls his arm back but Harry keeps his grip around his wrist, so Draco ends up pulling Harry closer. 

Their faces are inches apart. Harry’s breaths turn shallow. 

“I don’t care,” he says. 

“You say that now—”

Harry tightens his grip, silencing Draco. “I don’t care,” he says firmly. 

Draco half smiles. “I like when you get all passionate.” Then he leans in and kisses Harry, as if that were the most natural thing to do right then. 

Harry did not expect it, and he remains still under Draco’s touch. He had all these doubts and worries about this exact moment, but now that it is happening, Harry cannot think at all, he can only feel. A hand finds his waist. His hand slides up Draco’s arm, fitting against his neck, trembling. Their lips move haltingly, hesitantly, warm where the rest of the world stays cold. 

They pull apart slowly. His glasses have fogged up.

“That wasn’t too bad,” Draco murmurs, his hand on Harry’s knee. “Would you like to try again?”

Harry nods, unable to speak. Draco removes Harry’s glasses with a delicate hand. 

This time Draco scoots in closer, a hand pressing underneath his chin, pulling him towards his mouth. They meet softly, but with less doubt, fully exploratory now. Draco dips his head, his mouth opening gently against Harry’s. _Oh._

“Is this okay?” Draco asks against his lips. He moves his other hand underneath Harry’s sweater, finding his warm skin with his cold hands, feeling like a brand of fire so hot it’s like ice. Harry involuntarily shivers, and Draco moves the hand across his stomach, which jolts with pleasure. 

“Yes,” Harry says, his voice hoarse.

Draco kiss him again, more insistently, his tongue grazing Harry’s like the petal of a flower, soft like silk. His hand still moves against his stomach. Harry can barely stand it. His own hands flatten over the slim curve of Draco’s shoulders, down his back, sliding underneath the hem of his shirt. They keep kissing, their hands searching each other’s skin, that sea of intimacy, searching without knowing what they might find. 

Harry grips Draco’s waist, his thumbs skimming over his sharp hip bones. Draco hums into his mouth, and drapes forward, kissing him deeper, wider, opening up to Harry like a flower facing the sun. Harry takes all of it, he pulls Draco closer, wishing them to be pressed together, against each other, flush and hot and—and he doesn’t know what else, has not envisioned it yet.

Except he has, and his fingers skate below Draco’s belt. Draco gasps into a kiss, then he breaks off, and with glazed eyes, heavy eyes, which do not really see Harry, only feel him, Draco tugs at the hem of Harry’s sweater. 

Harry’s heart beats loudly in his chest as he lets Draco pull off his sweater and toss it on the ground, then remove his undershirt with a smirk. They stay apart for a moment, and Draco takes the time to admire Harry, to pass his hands over Harry’s bare chest, with his heartbeat loud like a drum, down his abdomen, tracing the thin line of hair that disappears beneath his jeans. 

Then Draco takes his own shirt off, button by button, until Harry can hardly sit still. It is off. Draco’s pale chest rises and falls rapidly. Harry stares, mesmerized, at the skin that glows like marble, but which flushes with blood, brimming with life. 

Harry moves forward at the exact same time Draco does, and they meet in the middle with force, their mouths fitted tightly against each other, no room for breath, until Draco moves his mouth away, across Harry’s jaw, down his neck, wet, careless kisses, finding his sensitive skin under his tongue, persistent until it stings. 

“Oh god,” Harry groans. 

Draco smiles as his mouth continues its path down his abdomen, where he looks up and touches Harry’s belt buckle. Harry nods, and can barely look, his gaze swinging up to the ceiling, as his belt falls away and Draco’s fingers curl under the waistband of his briefs, and everything goes very cold, and then very hot, and Harry labors for breath, his fingers finding curly hair, then gripping the couch, his hips buckling, then jerking, his teeth biting his lip to prevent a gasp, his legs trembling, seizing up, his eyes squeezed shut, the world black and then blinding white and then nothing and then all is still. 

His whole body stays at rest until Draco sits up again, then Harry’s pulling him toward his chest again, Draco’s entire body over his on the couch, kissing him, not a care in the world, his limbs languid, his skin hot and tender, where each touch from Draco’s fingers is like a spark against stone. 

“I want to see you,” Harry whispers, threading his fingers through Draco’s hair, which is already very disheveled. Draco’s reddened lips lift into a smile. 

“Need your glasses?” Draco asks haughtily.

Harry’s face burns. “You know what I mean,” he says gloomily. 

Draco’s face turns very serious. He turns around, kneeling on the couch, which Harry mimics so they are eye-level. Then Draco takes Harry’s hand and guides it to his chest. 

“Yes, I know what you mean.” He moves Harry’s hand down his chest, his stomach, dusted in fine golden hairs, to the belt, stopping there as if that’s his answer. With shaky hands, Harry works the belt buckle off, then unzips his pants. He pulls them down, along with Draco’s briefs, sliding them down, down, until there is nothing left to see except everything.

Harry stares at Draco, his lips parted. He takes in all of Draco, drinking up the sight of him, knowing that this _is_ the answer, this is the knowing, which he had always wondered at. He places his hands on Draco and knows that he touches the truth, that he touches life, pure and unaltered life. 

“You’re beautiful,” Harry says. 

Then Draco gasps, suddenly, and Harry grips his waist, pulling him in deeper, finding a rhythm, the ebb and flow, his body connected to Draco’s body, their pulses beating at the same pace, the pulse in Harry’s mouth hot and smooth. And Harry listens to Draco groan, then sigh, then shudder, against him, his hands taking Harry’s hair in his fists and pulling, he feels Draco’s legs nearly give, and he marvels at his power, at his knowledge, in this position, the gateway into another soul, into intimacy with another beating heart. 

Harry waits and waits and then suddenly Draco cries out, pulsing and shaking above him, and Harry holds him steadily until Draco collapses in his arms, defeated, a victor. They find each other’s arms, find the warmth and solidity of each other’s chests, each other’s legs like vines mapping the forest floor, tangled on the couch. 

They kiss one last time, sweetly, before Draco settles his head on Harry’s stomach, still breathing fast, still flushed and vibrant and alive. Harry traces patterns on Draco’s skin, and it spells out love. 

He looks up at Harry with a smile. 


End file.
